


The Universe Calls Us

by BridgeToTheSky



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Dreams, F/M, Fluff, Hallucinations, Leanings toward the poetic, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-19
Updated: 2015-12-19
Packaged: 2018-05-07 13:59:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5458973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BridgeToTheSky/pseuds/BridgeToTheSky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is something calling for Loki in the universe. </p><p>He knows nothing of its form or intention, purpose or concept, but he knows it is there, somewhere, far away and waiting like gold stashed away for a lucky one to find.</p><p>And he wants it.</p><p>Without even knowing what ‘it’ is, Loki is fond of it already; it is waiting for him, looking, perhaps, for him, and that in and of itself is enough to win him over, if only slightly; that he had been singled out amongst others, hundreds and thousands and millions and billions that could have been chosen.</p><p>Amongst Thor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Universe Calls Us

**Author's Note:**

> I have no clue what I'm doing but for some stupid reason I've assigned myself 2 more chapters for this freakin' thing. 
> 
> Does this mean I'm doomed?

There is something calling for Loki in the universe. 

 

He knows nothing of its form or intention, purpose or concept, but he knows it is there, somewhere, far away and waiting like gold stashed away for a lucky one to find.

 

And he wants it.

 

Without even knowing what ‘it’ is, Loki is fond of it already; it is waiting for him, looking, perhaps, for him, and that in and of itself is enough to win him over, if only slightly; that he had been singled out amongst others, hundreds and thousands and millions and  _ billions _ that could have been chosen.

 

Amongst Thor.

 

It calls for him; persistent, not like an inch he cannot scratch but like a brush against the neck. It doesn’t feel like a distress signal nor does it leave an impression of disdain for him, but … strangely benevolent, lucent and lovely. Like — like a _woman’s_ hand, he realizes.

 

It doesn’t let him forget, and brushes against him in night dreams, where he gets the further impression that the space between himself and it are as wide and all-encompassing as he could possibly conceive.

 

That doesn’t stop him from wanting it. 

 

When he slips away into the darkness of space, the figures of his father and brother growing ever smaller, he thinks he’ll find it, somewhere. 

 

Somewhere out there. 

 

He doesn’t.

 

When he can hear the war cries of the chitauri above and below and around him, he thinks the gesture is big enough for whatever is calling to find him, and finally offer him some small slab of peace.

 

It doesn’t.

 

When he’s sitting in the confinements of prison, repenting for his crimes (if you could even call it repenting at all) he begins to lose hope in it; perhaps it was all a childish dream? A manipulation of self to make him think there was something out there for him, that wanted him?

 

Foolish. 

 

But those thoughts are before the dream comes.

 

He sees feet, doused by sunlight, and flowers are growing under them with each tender step in the mossy grass. The sun is hot on hair flowing down a back that is otherwise left naked for his eyes. Sounds are faint but he knows a river is running nearby, and when the wind brushes he can feel droplets of it splash onto his flesh and revive him with its cool chill.

 

He can’t feel his legs moving, and yet he knows he is following — he has a vague feeling that he would follow anywhere — and the light begins to dim as he is taken through an arch of trees, their branches interweaving and creating shade.

 

Loki feels peaceful. The incessant hissing and growling of his insides quiet, the ugly wire that bounds his heart is loosened and falls away — something you just said; the type of joyful peace that comes after hearing a joke; what was it, he wonders. 

 

_Clunk_. 

 

Something to break the somewhat tranquil duration of the scene — your foot snags on a log and you catch yourself before Loki can intervene. You laugh is sheepish and you push hair behind your ear, blushing. 

 

Loki no longer follows but stands beside you, a quiet chuckle escapes as his hand grasps your own. He smiles. Not a smirk, not a leer, a smile, and the difference is incredibly significant. 

 

"I never want to leave here," he says. 

 

Your lips twitch upward. "That's because you do not _live_ here, Loki."

 

"I wish to."

 

Your smile falters entirely, and you shake your head. "Not this again ..." 

 

When have they discussed this before? He questions it in his mind, but it seems natural to understand that it had been a topic for the duo of them many times before.

 

"Oh, come on!" Loki says, laughing in disbelief as he releases your hand to gesture at your surroundings. "Who can bemoan _such_ a paradise?" 

 

You bend down, and as the sun dies and the light of day dims, Loki can see that the flower duplicates the radiance of the sun with its own luminescence. "Paradise or prison?"

 

Loki says nothing, tilting his head, expression quizzical. 

 

You don't indulge him with a response, either. Instead, coming to place the flower into his black mane of hair, allowing your fingers to graze his cheek, as though testing his tangibility. "This is the Void, Loki. One of many voids. Find me. Please. Find me and we shall make our own paradise, I promise it. It cannot be this one, not this illusion." 

 

His hand softly holds your wrist in place. His eyes remain on your own pleading ones. 

 

"Please ..." 

 

The sun falls away entirely, and he realizes that you, amongst the flowers, have your own personal light that battles the dark. 

 

" _Please ..._ "

 

And Loki wakes, his eyes simply opening, half his face against his pillow. It takes him a moment to understand, the final waves of hypnagogia waning away, before he remembers that this is his hell. He almost rolls his eyes at it all, the persistence of the world and how it seeks his unhappiness. Until he tilts his head that is, and feels something poking his scalp and falling against his temple. 

 

He reaches for it, feeling softness on one end and something narrow and fuzzy on the other.

 

He lifts it away from his head and sees with his own eyes. 

 

The luminescent flower. Not luminescent anymore, but it is the same.

 

He perks up, eyes glued to the sweet plant. He swallows, still unbelieving. He moves his thumb over the soft petals, and thinks:

 

Perhaps the world has thrown him a bone for once.


End file.
